Content warning: Blood, implications of self-harm.
shards of glass sparkle like
twinkling stars as they ricochet off
your body.
they embed in your flesh and
paint your skin red, rivulets of blood
running down your forearms,
reminding you of those nights you finally broke
skin in neat lines
carved by your own hand.
but these wounds are different,
you know this as
the blood drips from your fingertips
and pools on the floor:
glass and blood and the shattered remains
of me.
how many pieces is too many to
piece back together?
i want to ask but we already know
you put your fist through glass that was
never meant to last.
and now i’m splintered glass
and now you’re bloodied forearms.
and maybe
a person with a tendency to cut
should never love
a person as fragile as glass.